Amistad (Van Buren's Folly)

By Robert L. Waring (December 1997)

Yes, its true that Amistad is another movie about
some black people in peril who are helped out by some nice white guys, and told largely
from the perspective of these white guys. For that reason, this true story of the 1839
rebellion on the slave ship La Amistad and the subsequent recapture and trial of the
(alleged) slaves has been the subject of some controversy. Director Steven Spielberg
attempted to deflect some of this criticism in a recent interview by explaining that the
film is not so much a tale about slavery as it is about "how these Africans are
hopelessly caught in the quagmire of the American justice system." (His comment may
also have been introspectiveAmistad has been mired in a legal challenge by Barbara Chase-Riboud, an author who
alleged the film appropriated her ideas. She filed an unsuccessful, last minute injunction
to prevent its release, heightening the films public visibility and further lining
Spielbergs pockets and possibly her own.)

Taking a cue from Spielberg, this commentary discusses the
films depiction of the two issues of slavery and justice. While I disagree with
Spielbergslavery is the more important issue of the twoAmistad teaches
an important lesson about judicial independence.

Slavery

Regardless of ones opinion of Spielbergs perspective
in depicting slavery, it must be acknowledged that the film tells a powerful story about
that evil institution. Yes, there are some scenes overly engineered with loud music and
Spielbergs syrupy sentimentality, but the film becomes an inescapable vortex at its
midpoint when the principle spokesman for the slaves, Cinque, recounts the horrors of his
kidnaping and voyage to Cuba on a slave ship. This flashback is as difficult to watch as
any scene from Spielbergs Schindlers List.
The film does have a happy ending, but fortunately, that does not begin to make up for the
revulsion most viewers are likely to retain from their terrifying glimpse of slave
transport.

One nearly universal reaction to this film is bewilderment about
how such a compelling story could have remained untold for so long. In fact, a novel
called Black Mutiny based on the story was published in 1953. Perhaps in part
because America has been in a state of self-denial about slavery since the founding of the
Republic, the La Amistad incident, a national embarrassment, never seems to have achieved
prominence in any history book. That should change as a result of Spielbergs noble
effort.

What is more surprising is that the story has also remained
invisible in the home nation of the slaves, Sierra Leone. I heard an interview
on National Public Radio a week before the release of Amistad in which a playwright
from Sierra Leone told how he first learned of the rebellion from a white teacher in 1986.
His recent play about La Amistad made his nation aware of this lost piece of history and
will open in America in mid-1998. Incidently, in the film, Spielberg wisely chose to cast
actors from Sierra Leone in the slave roles, thereby enhancing the films portrayal
of the culture shock the slaves experienced.

It would be wonderful if Amistad sparked millions of
meaningful conversations between black, brown and white people about race. Unfortunately,
in part because some prominent African-Americans seem troubled about the white origins of
the film, this may not happen. That lost opportunity would be tragic indeed. The OJ
Simpson case and the dismantling of affirmative action appear to have further polarized
points of view on the significance of race in our society. Many whites (and a few blacks)
bitterly resent so-called "playing the race card" in the courtroom, at school or
on the job. Yet, what is on that card is still very different for African-American and
white people. This lack of understanding about what is being "played"
distorts the process and leads to further resentment on both sides. Any white person who
after watching Amistad still believes that the time has come to forget the sins of
the past and move on should watch the film again with an African-American and discuss it
afterwards.

Justice

The film achieves some notoriety through its addition to the
lexicon of lawyer names of yet another insult: "dung scraper." The abolitionists
who take up the cause of the rebellious slaves are approached by an ambitious young
lawyer, Roger Baldwin, played convincingly by Matthew McConaughey and described by one
reviewer as a mutton-chopped "antebellum ambulance chaser." The Africans, who
dont speak a word of English, decide that the Baldwin, whose function is a mystery
to them, reminds them of a dung scraper from back home. (Those viewers who saw Jurassic Park may
remember that Spielberg has a certain disdain for the profession, as evidenced by the
dining habits of his reptiles.)

The young lawyer, much to the horror of the moralistic
abolitionists, analyzes the case in an unemotional, lawyer-like fashion, likening it to a
simple property dispute. Yet, from the outset, the posture of the case is cloudy. The
legal process begins with what must be every judges basic nightmare. In a cramped,
overcrowded federal district courtroom in Connecticut, a succession lawyers appears, each
holding up writs and pleas and insisting on being heard, until there are five parties
present, each claiming to have international treaties on their side.

The two surviving crew members and the Spanish government, under
whose authority La Amistad sailed, each demand the return of the vessel and its human
cargo. The United States supports the Spanish, but argues the slaves should be executed as
murderous mutineers, giving a criminal flavor to the admiralty proceedings. The crew of
the United States warship that recaptured La Amistad claims a one-third salvage interest in the vessel,
under a maritime law incentive scheme that rewards enterprising seamen, even those in
government employ, for retrieving lost property. (Mercifully, Spielberg chose to leave out
the similar claims of some opportunistic Long Island residents.) British Naval officers
appear as self-righteous witnesses who also ply international waters intercepting slave
ships and freeing their prisoners. The movie begins to look like Roots meets Citizen Ruth, as
these competing parties dogmatically pursue their causes, mostly oblivious to the welfare
of the Africans whose lives and liberty are at stake.

Nevertheless, as Baldwin predicted, the resolution of the dispute
boils down to one simple issue. Under international treaties in force for two decades,
importation of African slaves to the Americas is illegal. Spain and the United States
contend that the slaves in question were born in Cuba. The abolitionists claim that they
were illegally imported, and thus the Africans are not slaves and their homicidal
rebellion was justified by the law of necessity. Much of the story is devoted to
Baldwins gathering of evidence that establishes the origins of the Africans, whose
principle function at his point in the story seems to be their curiosity value for the
Connecticut townsfolk who gawk as every day they trudge from jail to court in chains.

But there is a powerful twist to this otherwise simple case.
United States President Martin Van Buren is running for re-election and is anxious to
secure the electoral votes of southern states very nervous about giving any encouragement
to slave rebellions. Throughout the Africans legal journey, Van Buren and his
advisors work behind the scenes to rig the courts against them and the story at times
seems primarily focused on this interference by the executive branch into the activities
of judiciary.

The first tactic, thankfully unsuccessful, involves forcing a
retrial before a young judge recently appointed by Van Buren. The film skips the
Africans pro forma victory at the court of appeals, and instead focuses on the
pressure the executive branch places on the Supreme Court. (A detail glossed over by the
film is that the Supreme Court did not issue its ruling until after Van Buren had already
lost the election.) One particularly interesting scene is a state dinner and a
conversation between the Spanish Ambassador and President Van Buren. The Ambassador,
puzzled over the unfavorable ruling by the district court, asks, "If you cannot rule
the courts, how can you rule?" Van Buren hypocritically replies, "Our people
believe it is the independence of the courts that ensures their freedom." Those who
in present times question the notion of life tenure for judges might find this exchange of
interest.

In a monologue which immediately follows, former Vice-President
Calhoun threatens armed rebellion by the southern states over the slavery issue.
Undoubtedly, the screen writers were trying to illustrate the pressures facing Van Buren
and the nation in 1840, but having Calhoun commit treason at a state dinner seems a little
over the top.

Of special note is Anthony Hopkins portrayal of John Quincy Adams. When we
first see former President Adams, he is a man well into his declining years. The film only
hints at the fact that Adams was a one-term President, elected without an electoral
college mandate and elevated to that high office as a result of fragile coalition in the
Congress. Also an acclaimed former secretary of state, his idealistic goals as President
were frustrated by factionalism. In the decade following his re-election defeat in 1828,
he became a major force in the opposition to slavery.

As depicted in Amistad, the abolitionists repeatedly plead
with Adams to help them with the case, which they know is being subjected to heavy
political pressure. He refuses, appearing to have no stomach for the fight. But he gives
Baldwin one key suggestion regarding trial advocacy: learn the human story of your clients
and emotionally relate that to the court. As a result of this advice, the audience and the
court learn of the inhumanity of slave trading and the movie and court case succeed.
Beginning trial lawyers should take note.

Baldwin eventually prevails upon Adams to join their fight when
they reach the Supreme Court. Although the movie does not indicate this, Adams reportedly
argued before the Supreme Court for eight and half hours on behalf of his clients.
Presumably, this was prior to the days of oral argument time limits and the establishment
of decent theaters in Washington. Adams must have been a good orator, but sadly, the text
of his remarks was not included in the official report of the case because he failed to
submit it. The reporter does note that much of what Adams said was not considered by the
court in the opinion, authored by Justice Joseph Story, 40 U.S. 518, 566 (1841). It may
be safe to assume that Adams spent considerable time putting a human face on the dispute.

Ironically, Justice
Story (portrayed in the film in a cameo by retired Justice Harry Blackmun in his first
screen role) held the seat on the Court that had first been offered to Adams some thirty
years before. Adams had declined, presumably in favor of his presidential aspirations.

Two curiosities of note: Spielberg chose not to tell the story of
a legal slave named Antonio who was onboard La Amistad. By order of the district court he
was returned to his owner in Cuba, presumably because it was established that he was born
in the Americas. The film also glossed over the final resolution of the case. The district
court holding had directed the President to transport the Africans back to Africa at
government expense based on the governments own argument that the Africans had
illegally brought a slave ship into U.S. waters. In its appeal, the government dropped
this argument, which the Supreme Court noted was absurd. (Persons involuntarily forced
into slavery cannot themselves be guilty of slave trading.) So the Supreme Court followed
the circuit court holding and merely declared the Africans to be free persons. With no
help from the government, it took a year for Abolitionist groups to arrange for their
return to Sierra Leone. But these facts might have diluted the otherwise happy ending.

We can also thank Spielberg for an idea to increase public
interest in the normally undramatic proceedings of the Supreme Court. Why not have
criminal defendants in the courtroom in chains when the Supreme Court announces rulings? A
marshal could then either release them on the spot, or, in the case of capital offenses,
escort them to a nearby death chamber. The public would love it.